


Art Cannot Be Tamed

by Mira



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:18:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira





	Art Cannot Be Tamed

Billy stared into the mirror, surprised, for a moment, by the reflection. Then he bared his teeth and studied them. He understood now the expression _long in the tooth._ He was indeed getting long in the tooth -- or short in the chin.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair. Mostly gone, mostly grey, but still a bit of auburn to it. He sighed and turned to dress.

First an age-softened faded green tee-shirt; if he looked carefully at the front, he could almost read the words _Future Forests._ Whatever happened to that idea? So many good ones that had come to naught. Then his dress shirt, new and still crisp. No cufflinks, though; they were too much work for the results. He had to sit down to pull on his trousers; his left leg in particular gave him trouble and he had to slowly work the trouser leg up. He rested a moment before rising again to finish pulling them up and fastening them.

The belt had hidden itself in the sock drawer, so it took several minutes to find it and longer to thread it through his belt loops. He had to buckle it by feel before he could turn his attention to his tie. He attempted a half-Windsor several times but soon admitted defeat and carefully tied a four-in-hand.

At last, he threaded his arms into his suit jacket. Single breasted, so all buttons but the bottom one had to be fastened; the arthritis in his fingers challenged this convention, but he struggled on.

Finally, shoes, beautifully shined. He smiled at them, remembering the tattered things he'd worn as a young man. Scuffed, run-over, but comfortable they'd been. But not this afternoon. No, not this afternoon.

And the last touches, the ones that would speak his secrets to those who cared to look: first, a ring, slipped onto his left ring finger. He rarely wore it on that hand, but today it belonged there. Then, a pocket handkerchief he'd painstakingly folded the night before, peering into a book of instructions so he could turn it into a straight shell. He tucked it into his breast pocket with the folded edge up. Only careful studying would reveal that the little bit of embroidery that showed, the green, yellow, and brown stitches, formed a monkey climbing a coconut palm tree.

He smiled into the mirror, and nodded.

He drove himself in his little electric car, and it was a pleasant day to be out in London. The memorial service was in Trafalgar Square, St Martin-in-the-Fields; where else for a musician? Traffic was wretched, as always, and though he'd left plenty of time, he felt pressured. Sweat dampened his armpits, and his palms grew slick. Perhaps he should have hailed a taxi, or taken the tube to Charing Cross. When he finally maneuvered into the car park behind the church, he sighed, and rubbed his hands on his thighs, the soft wool only a bit scratchy. He smiled to himself as he locked the car, remembering the dented bumper on the Prius from so many years ago.

People were streaming into St Martin's, up the steps and through the church entrance. He merged with them, looking around him curiously. There was Peter Weir; they nodded, and Peter smiled at him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a familiar Mancunian accent; he looked back to find Bernard. They hugged, Bernard feeling frail in his arms. "Good to see you," Bernard whispered, and he nodded. When Billy leaned back, Bernard fingered the green stone at his throat. "Still wearing it, I see."

"Always. Always."

They walked into the church together, Bernard a bit wobbly. Ahead of them, Billy saw the vicar look over her shoulder and smile. She gestured, and he nodded back. "Bernard, I need to sit up front. Would you like to come up with me?"

"No, I need to sit in the back." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "In case I need to get to the toilet, y'know."

"I understand completely," Billy said, and helped Bernard as he half-fell into the pew. "Let's get together soon," he said impulsively. Bernard smiled and patted Billy's hand where it rested on his shoulder.

Reverend Askew's hair lay in damp curls on her forehead, but she looked calm, and not at all nervous. "So glad to see you, Mister Boyd," she said, shaking his hand. If you'll sit beside Mister Jackson?"

"Peter!" Peter rose, still hobbit-like in spite of his grey hair. "Christ, but it's good to see you." Peter trembled, and Billy thought he might be shaking as well. "I miss Fran," he whispered in Peter's ear.

"With every breath." They stood entwined for a moment, and then Peter tugged Billy into the front pew. "Lovely place," he said, gesturing at the altar, but Billy kept his eyes on Peter.

"It is, but I'd rather look at you. You've lost weight again, eh?"

"Bit. So've you."

And Billy had, he knew. He shrugged. "So you're speaking?"

"Yes, yes. Here, d'you have a copy?" He pulled from under Billy a glossy flyer, the memorial service program. At the top was a photograph and below, in script, it read _Howard Shore, October 18, 1946 - November 30, 2033_. The photograph was from years ago, probably from _Rings_, Billy guessed. He took the program and studied it carefully. "Here you are," Peter added, pointing at the program. "Two places. I only have the one."

"Wanker," Billy said, then remembered where he was and blushed, but Peter gave his famous giggle.

"Peter," a woman said, and Billy looked up to see Philippa Boyens. Her hair was short and pale blonde, but she was as voluptuous as ever, he thought. The two men rose and she said, "Oh my god," when she realised who Billy was. She crushed him against her bosom.

When they'd sorted themselves out, Philippa mopping at her eyes with a tissue from a wad she'd extracted from her bag, they sat, Billy between them. The church was nearly full now, and people lined the back of the nave. Despite the season, it was warm, and he found he was sweating again. He dabbed at his brow with a tissue Philippa had given him but resigned himself to an hour or so of physical as well as emotional discomfort.

"Come on," he whispered. Peter giggled again and Philippa elbowed him, but the vicar only raised her eyebrows. That was enough to quash him and he settled back against the hard wood.

Then the music began; Bach, the program said, and the crowd quieted, the rustling and whispering dying away. It sounded to Billy like a full orchestra, and at first he craned his neck to locate the source, but he noticed many of the others watching him, so he faced forward, eyes on the vicar as she stood quietly to one side.

The music was beautiful; he closed his eyes but so many beloved faces flashed before him that he opened them again to study the interior of St Martin's. He'd been here before, of course, but as a tourist. He felt slightly embarrassed that he'd never come to a service, or to hear the famous music.

Finally, the sound died away, and the church sat in silence. The vicar remained silent, her head down, eyes closed, for a long minute, before raising her head and moving to the low podium. "Welcome," she said; her voice was low and soft, but amplified enough to hear each word. "We are here to remember Howard Shore, whom I had the pleasure of knowing and who honoured St Martin's with his presence as conductor several times.

"Now he is gone, but as evidenced by today, not forgotten. He will not be forgotten for a very long time; the music he bequeathed to the world ensures that. We are here to celebrate his music, his enormous gifts, but we also celebrate and remember the man: his smile, his laughter, and those glasses."

That prompted some laughter, and Billy smiled, too, in fond memory. The vicar spoke more, but he was lost in remembrance of Howard. He'd loved working with him, and had sung for him many times over the years. Now Howard was gone. So many were gone.

Reverend Askew eventually introduced David Cronenberg, with whom Howard had really begun his career. Billy studied him curiously; was this the man who'd made such strange and violent films?

"I miss my fellow Torontonian," David began, and sighed. Billy believed him. Howard had always spoken highly of David. When working on _Rings_, Billy had tried to watch the movies of all the cast and crew, so he'd seen much of David and Howard's work. He'd even found CDs of Lighthouse, the band Howard had played in so long ago.

He looked up suddenly when Peter stood up. "Wish me luck," he mumbled.

"Merde," Philippa whispered, and Billy nodded. He considered Peter carefully as he spoke. He and Howard had worked together as closely as Howard and David had, and with much greater success. He could see them in his mind's eye, working all through the night, night after night, talking via the internet, struggling with their monstrous creation. And then they'd turned around and done it again, with King Kong. Peter didn't have to say anything for Billy to know that he had loved Howard. Two enormous talents; of course they'd found each other, and grown from the experience.

He found his eyes dampened a bit as Peter spoke. He took a deep breath and turned his attention away from Peter's words and the images they evoked. Stay in the present, he scolded himself. Pee here now, as Lij would have said. That made him smile, and he took another deep breath, exhaling slowly.

Thus he was surprised when Peter sat next to him. The vicar returned to the podium, looked rather sternly at her audience, and said, "The reading is from Matthew, chapter five. Blessed are the poor in spirit," she began, and Billy felt a smile curl his lips; he knew what was coming. "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy." He remembered ancient joking arguments with friends about those words. Then Pete whispered, "You're up," and Billy stood to walk to the vicar.

"Please rise to sing the hymn," she said. "Led by Howard's dear friend Billy Boyd."

Everyone stood, grateful, Billy guessed, for a moment to stretch and speak before they quieted down again. A piano began to play, just a piano, and then he began to sing, the other voices rising around him:

_And did those feet in ancient time_

_Walk upon England's mountains green?_

_And was the holy Lamb of God_

_On England's pleasant pastures seen?  
_

And did the Countenance Divine

 

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

 

And was Jerusalem builded here

 

Among those dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!

 

Bring me my arrows of desire!

 

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire!

 

I will not cease from mental fight,

 

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

 

Till we have built Jerusalem

 

In England's green and pleasant land.

He was a professional, so he didn't weep at the words, though he observed many who did. But he was grateful to finish, to sigh heavily and look to the vicar who smiled at him. He felt a bit shaky as he made his way back to Peter and Philippa, who each put a hand on his back as he sat. "Lovely," Philippa said, and kissed his cheek. Peter smiled at him, and Billy saw the tears magnified behind his glasses. Philippa took a deep breath. "And now me."

She stood and walked first to the vicar, taking her hand. The two women spoke briefly, and then Philippa turned to face all who had gathered to remember. "Howard was my friend," she said, and stopped abruptly. Billy was close enough and his glasses strong enough to see she was gathering strength to continue. "He was my friend," she said again, "and I loved him. The years we worked together are my most treasured. Being here, speaking of Howard, reminds me that we have lost Fran, too." There was a soft wave of sound, and she paused, looking at Peter. Billy put his arm around Peter's waist. "I like to imagine them in some heaven, not unlike St Martin's, where they write celestial music together, and make the angels weep with its beauty."

Billy wanted to bolt from the church at her words. The angels should weep, he thought, almost angry at his losses. So many were gone, gathered to God they said, though Billy had seen precious little to persuade him any god cared about this earth. But it was a lovely thought. His parents would be there, and his little niece, lost as a tiny baby. His American cousin, killed in that horrible war, and his beloved grandmother, who'd seen him through so much.

There were others, too, whom he wanted to imagine in that imaginary audience of Howard and Fran's. A shite audience they'd make, too, laughing, talking, and taking the piss, thumb-wrestling, tickling, drinking from hidden flasks, being as naughty as schoolboys no matter what their age. He saw a blond head, styled into a tousle, and two dark heads, all huddled together, making mischief and breaking hearts. He saw an elegant old man with a beaky nose, eyebrows raised superciliously but a bawdy word at the ready.

He looked down at his wrist, at the leather band he'd carefully tied there. Soft with age and use, it smelt of leather and something else that he'd never been able to identify. He thought it smelt of its prior owner, who had wrapped the band around Billy's wrist himself and then kissed it. "Licking the hand that beats you," Billy had teased at the time, but then he'd been kissed quiet. He raised his hand to his mouth and gently kissed the wristband, tasting it, closing his eyes and rubbing it gently against his cheek.

Philippa stopped speaking, and he opened his eyes. She was looking at him, biting her lip. He smiled and nodded, and she looked relieved. The vicar thanked her, shaking her hand, and she came to sit next to Billy. He took her hand, threading their fingers, but did not speak.

To his shock, an elderly man was helped to stand by the podium, balanced on two canes. He was as thin as Billy, his hair entirely white, but he recognised those dark sharp eyes: John.

Looking directly into Billy's upturned face, John spoke, not bothering with the microphone. His voice was lighter and perhaps higher than Billy remembered, but just as strong. What an instrument, he thought, and then began to listen as John recited a poem he'd never heard before.

_ Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with his hour,_

_And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,_

_With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,_

_To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,_

_Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,_

_Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,_

_And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,_

_And all the little emptiness of love!  
_

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,

 

Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,

 

Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;

 

Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there

 

But only agony, and that has ending;

 

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

He wasn't at all sure he liked the poem, or found it fitting, but when John finished, he rose without thinking, holding him tenderly. "Thank you," John whispered, and Billy helped him back to his seat, where two young men were waiting for him.

And now it was Billy's turn again. He waited by John as the vicar spoke again, but he was beyond hearing her words. He could no longer see the people who had gathered for Howard. He saw Howard's face when he'd first heard Billy, he saw Philippa's excitement, and Fran's pleased smile. He saw Peter's bewilderment turn into delight. And he saw Dom's pride; he had practically glowed with it.

For you, he thought, taking a deep breath. He was to sing solo, _a capella_, as he had so many times before. For you, he thought again.

_Home is behind, the world is ahead._

_There are many paths to tread._

_Through shadows to the edge of night._

_Till the stars are all alight.  
_

Mist and shadow, cloud and shade.

 

All shall fade, all shall fade.

His voice lingered on the final note, as thin, he thought, as butter that has been scraped over too much bread. He stood quietly, breathing lightly; the song had filled him with something like light, as music sometimes did. He was so fucking proud of that song and the arrangement that he and Howard had come up with. Peter was beaming at him, and Philippa crying, but smiling, too.

Finally, finally, the damn service was drawing to a close. He sat and tried to listen to the vicar, but her words were lost to him. When they all rose a final time, he kissed both Philippa and Peter, holding them tightly. So many people wanted to speak to him, but the song had taken all his words and he could only grip their hands and smile. He was only partly present, he decided as he was lifted into the air by Lawrence's hug. Most of him was somewhere else, some _time_ else, and with a different group of people. Not these faces, he thought, as he slid through the crowd like one of Viggo's fish, slipping away from their hold on him. Not here, not here, I'm not here anymore.

He did stop by Bernard and bent over to hear his words. "I'll call you," Bernard said, his voice husky. "Lunch soon. This week, in fact. I insist. Lots of wine and long, long talks."

"Lovely," he tried to say, but his words really were gone, so he kissed Bernard, squeezed his hand, and sidled through the crowd, trying not to meet any more eyes. At last he stood on the church's steps, breathing the London air, cleaner now but still thick with history and the noise of the emerging crowd. There was to be a gathering at a hotel, he knew, given by one of Howard's surviving children, and he had planned to attend, but now he wanted only to be back in his little car and on the road home.

This late in the year, it was nearly dark despite the early hour, and by the time he finally was able to pull out onto Duncannon Street, he had his lights on. He knew he was fleeing something, and felt a pinch of shame at that, but mostly a wonderful airy relief, as if death itself were being left behind. But that wasn't true, either; his home was nearly a museum of his dead, filled with photos and trinkets he was anxious to see again.

The world still lay ahead, he finally decided as he waited at a light. So many miles ahead of him, even if he had to walk them alone. His Sam was gone, had sailed West without him, but at that moment, motor idling silently as he waited for the signal to go, he felt an absurd confidence that he wasn't far away. That they were all right there, so close, waiting for him. He smiled to himself. "There are many paths to tread," he sang beneath his breath.

The light turned green, and he went.

* * *

Posted June 1, 2007


End file.
